


Jenny

by DaintilyMoreoverWhims



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaintilyMoreoverWhims/pseuds/DaintilyMoreoverWhims
Summary: Rated T for what I reckon any reasonable person would call an unpleasant death.





	Jenny

I am at my desk. Rectangular, unpleasantly slick, made from that unidentifiable white material these sorts of items always are. Hideous. There is a nameplate attached to it.

JENNIFER WHITTLER  
ASSISTANT MANAGER

Apparently that's me, though I've never been able to verify this. At any rate, not a greatly endearing name. FERN gives -1 and WHITTLER is 6, making 5 altogether, which is desirable only in extrema. 5 is the number of Yejui in the Book of Jahpe: Kolon, Herhu, Akulastemi, Jaug, Yomonget. Scholars of the Book, most notably Entageses of Theuton, often cite the Regal Passages as proof the 5 Yejui are references to the steps of the Bronze Path, rather than physical entities. This is wrong, but as with many things it's the thought that counts.

"...and together the five must be overcome, trodden as tread the feet of all men in their final days. Kolon, the sheepskin to dull all blows. Herhu, a balm of confusion to the bridge between mind and limb. Akulastemi, the unechoing ocean. Alone surpassable, together a triad of isolated madness against which no fortification may stand but the final pair. Jaug, the void between stars. Yomonget, the dreams of stone. For the greatest..."

Do you see it? If not, don't worry. I've heard dead philosophers make excellent company.

All previous efforts suffer from the same mistake. They consult only the Book itself, or writings on the topic by others of similar oversight, rather than first studying the basic ideologies of the Mahmi people. We shouldn't blame them of course; the Book is the only piece of literature surviving of this culture. Supposedly.

They are the five senses. Not the five as quoted today, but the five core perceptions of the Mahmi anthropology. First, the sense closest to meaning touch, including temperature and pain, as well as both taste and smell, which were considered to be the same. Next, the knowledge of the positions of one's body parts. Lastly we have hearing, sight, and finally the sense of reasoning. As I tell you this, I concentrate on each in my mind. It is necessary for what I am about to try.

There, in the distance, Peter Raswate, pacing with excruciating slowness from the photocopier to the window and back. He's waiting for something. So am I. His foot lands in front of the Xerox, and I begin. Three pens from the holder on the far left, turned upside-down; red, black, red. As the next step lands, I drop my chair three clicks. Spin to face the window, two breaths, spin back. Footfall. Staples from the staple box, into the empty mug on my right. Six shakes, empty onto the table. The next thud reaches me, and I tell myself I have practised, practised until my hands shook. This part I must do very fast, so this is what I do. Top drawer open, shut, open again. Two rubber bands from inside, knotted together in a pattern I cannot describe with words. I wrap two pens in masking tape, breathing under the adhesive as I go. One pen in each rubber band, and I pull taught. Five steps until the window. Everything has happened as needed.

Five: I pull harder, turning each pen a half-twist in opposite directions. Four: I snap the bands and drop the remains into the pool of staples. Three: I place a sheet of paper over the staples. Two: I take the black pen from the left, uncap it, and lick the tip. One: I pierce the sheet.

Peter drops to the floor, eyes foaming, lips wide. From his ears, streams of linked paperclips like marching ants. His mouth and skin are paper now, the words of his inner monologue streaming in real time across his face. He screams. His tongue unfurls like a party horn, with a noise to match. It would be funny, were it not horrifying beyond description.

People notice now. They rush over, expecting, I suppose, a "normal" catastrophe. One woman has her phone ready to dial, but lets it drop as she notices Peter on the floor, no longer moving, warping like a drying book. The place is chaos, as you would expect. The place is chaos, and shouting, and vomit, and above all the place is fear. Most run for the nearest exit. A few remain, hiding, for whatever good it might do them. I am the only one left seated.

It has been only minutes, and now they arrive. The police, perhaps, or paramedics, or someone else entirely. I don't know, I am busy again. Staples off the desk, I take a whiteboard marker. This process is very different from the first. Groundwork laid by Euclid himself, refinements by countless others. I have worked this construction only twice before, but I think it likely I will never tire of its beauty. Whoever is approaching begins to speak. They remove something from their pocket and begin to lift it. I stroke the final line, spit toward the ceiling, and empty my lungs. Ruler off the table, palms over my ears.

The droplets land, the figure steps back, and I am gone.


End file.
